


Not By The Hand Of Man

by likethenight



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Drinking, Gen, Glorfindel is really incredibly smug at having got that one right, Humor, Old Friends, Prophecy, Reunions, Tall Tales, i told you so
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-28
Updated: 2017-01-28
Packaged: 2018-09-20 11:31:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9489104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/likethenight/pseuds/likethenight
Summary: Glorfindel, Erestor and a reborn Ecthelion are catching up over a few ales in Valinor after the Elves sailed West, and there's one tale in particular that Glorfindel is absolutely itching to tell his old friend. Erestor, long-suffering, gets to be the enabler.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rainflash](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rainflash/gifts).



> Written last year in response to a prompt from rainflash, my long-term partner in Tolkien-related crime, in which she suggested I write about Glorfindel, Erestor and Ecthelion getting their drink on. I've been meaning for approximately _ever_ to write something about Glorfindel being insufferably smug about getting his prophecy exactly on the nose, and this gave me the perfect excuse at last. He probably sent Éowyn and Merry extravagant gifts once the furore had died down, to say thank you for proving him right. Poor old Erestor has had to put up with an awful lot over the centuries. :D

"Hobbits," says Glorfindel the Fair, twice-born hero of the House of the Golden Flower, raising a distinctly non-Elvish tankard of definitely non-elvish ale. "Remarkable creatures."

"So you say," says Ecthelion of the Fountain, reborn here in the Western Lands, so long after his traumatic death. He raises his own tankard and takes a tentative sip of his ale. "So you _keep_ saying," he amends, and takes another, larger sip. 

"Well, they are," says Glorfindel, glancing at their companion for backup. "Tell him, Erestor."

Erestor rolls his eyes and winces, just a little bit theatrically. "Don't ask _me_. I just had to sit there while they all argued with Master Elrond about it all." He sighs. "Ate us out of house and home, they did. They eat two breakfasts, did you know?"

"That might explain a lot," says Glorfindel indulgently. "Brave little buggers, though."

"Undoubtedly," acknowledges Erestor. "But accidentally. Not one of them had any idea what they were volunteering for. Well, perhaps young Frodo Baggins might have had an inkling, I got the impression that he was at least well-read. The others, though? Not a clue."

"Probably for the best, from what I hear," Ecthelion muses, between mouthfuls of ale. "If they'd known in advance, I suspect not one of them would have volunteered, and I'd have been gazing across the sea at the plumes of smoke as Middle-Earth burned."

"Maybe. But maybe not," says Glorfindel. "They are good little fellows, all of them. Fond of their food, and their ale," he tilts his tankard, "and generous with their recipes, may Varda bless them and keep them, but possessed of courage that belies their small size. You didn't see them right afterwards," he points out to Erestor, who had stayed behind in Imladris to hold the fort there until it had become apparent that the danger had passed. "Terrible state they were in, Frodo and Sam, and Meriadoc too. Not to mention young Peregrin. All of them sorely wounded, reeling from seeing things that Hobbits were never meant to see. But within a little while they were all up and about, chirpy as ever, and you'd never have guessed what they had been through, if you'd just glanced at them." He takes a long drink of his ale and sighs contemplatively. "They really do know their stuff when it comes to brewing, too," he says happily.

"I'll grant you that," says Ecthelion. "So what else did I miss, alongside the rise of Men and the unexpected bravery and brewing skills of Hobbits?"

"Oh, not much," says Glorfindel. "A dragon. Some eagles. Plenty of Dwarves. Another Balrog, although I didn't have to deal with that one." He shudders involuntarily. "Mithrandir took the honours in that battle. Went in Grey, came out White." He pauses for effect, and Erestor rolls his eyes; he knows what's coming. "Oh, and I may have made a prophecy."

"A prophecy?" Ecthelion echoes, questioning; to be fair, this is the first time the three of them have had the chance to sit down and catch up with each other. It's been busy here in the West, with all the new arrivals from Middle-Earth now that the Age of Men has begun, and there has been too much to do to allow for much in the way of proper reunions.

"A prophecy," confirms Erestor, deadpan. "Do ask him about it. He won't tell you unless you ask." 

Ecthelion snorts; Glorfindel has never been backward in coming forward, and the tone of long-suffering sarcasm in Erestor's voice tells him that this tale has been told many times, probably whether the listeners wanted to hear it or not. Glorfindel is grinning particularly smugly and that, too, tells Ecthelion a good deal.

"Go on, then," he says. "Tell me about your prophecy."

"Well," says Glorfindel, shifting and settling himself more comfortably in his chair and pouring himself some more ale from the large flagon in the centre of the table. He had made sure to bring a good few barrels of Hobbiton's finest with him when he left Middle-Earth, along with detailed instructions on how to brew it. "It was about, oh, I don't know, a couple of thousand years ago." He sounds casual and dismissive, and Erestor rolls his eyes again. 

"You know exactly when it was," Erestor puts in, "it was in the year 1975 of the Third Age. Never let it be said you forgot a single moment in your own illustrious history." There is deep affection in his voice, beneath the bite of sarcasm, and Glorfindel flashes him an utterly unrepentant grin. 

"All right, it was in the year 1975 of the Third Age," he echoes Erestor, "and at the Battle of Fornost I fought alongside Eärnur, the Last King of Gondor. Well, the last one until the current one, anyway, now that young Estel has finally taken up his destiny. Took him long enough. Anyway. We battled against the forces of Angmar, led by their evil commander the Witch-King, Lord of the Ring-Wraiths and servant of Sauron. And we defeated him, and drove him away. Eärnur would have gone after him, but I had one of my many flashes of brilliance," Erestor coughs at this point but Glorfindel blithely ignores him, continuing with his tale, "and I said to Eärnur, 'Do not pursue him! He will not return to these lands. Far off yet is his doom, and not by the hand of man will he fall.'" Glorfindel intones the words with a voice slightly deeper than usual, imbuing his words with significance, then pauses for effect.

"You did, did you?" says Ecthelion, one eyebrow raised; long experience in Gondolin of Glorfindel's many tales has taught him how to handle his friend, and it's clear enough that this much, at least, has not changed, though Glorfindel has lived another lifetime since the last time they saw each other.

"Go on," says Erestor acidly, "encourage him."

"I did," says Glorfindel, utterly unaffected. "I don't quite know what made me say it, but I was suddenly very sure of it. There was nothing we could have done, and we would not see him again for a long time."

"Let me guess," says Ecthelion, "you were right, there wasn't, and you didn't."

"I was indeed right," Glorfindel pronounces solemnly. "Buggered right off, he did, and he didn't show his face again until very recently indeed," he continues, somewhat less solemnly. "But that's not the best bit."

Erestor sighs long-sufferingly. Ecthelion grins; he has missed this, the easy cameraderie between the three of them. It's been very quiet here in the Undying Lands without his old friends.

"All right," he says, "what was the best bit?"

"The best bit," says Glorfindel, "is that _that_ wasn't the only thing I was right about." He pauses. " _Not by the hand of man shall he fall_ ," he says, significantly. "And he didn't."

"Oh, now that I come to think about it, I think I heard something about that," says Ecthelion. "Wasn't it something to do with the shieldmaiden of Rohan and one of the Hobbits?"

"Wasn't it just," says Erestor, deadpan again, although the warmth in his eyes betrays the way he really feels about the Witch-King's killers.

"I told you so," says Glorfindel. " _Not by the hand of man_ , and he didn't. A woman, one of the bravest warriors I've ever had the pleasure of witnessing in battle, and a Hobbit, another one of the bravest warriors I've ever seen." He raises his tankard and the others lift theirs to clank them together in an impromptu toast to Éowyn and Merry. 

"So did you know?" Ecthelion asks after they've all had a drink long enough to demonstrate their considerable respect for the Witch-King-slayers. "When you said that, did you know it would be them?"

Glorfindel grins. "Not a clue," he admits. "I don't even know what made me say it. But I was still right, wasn't I? I was still bloody right."

"You were indeed still right," says Erestor, with the air of one who has played straight man in this routine more than once before. "Well done you." 

"So is this something you've developed in your second life, this talent for prophecy?" asks Ecthelion with a wry smile. "Are you the Elf we need around so that we know in advance if something big is going to happen?"

"Well, I _am_ rather handy in a crisis," says Glorfindel, smugly. "I made the waters of the Bruinen rise to wash away some of the Nazgûl riders, so that we could get Frodo to safety in Imladris. And that was just for _starters_. So I'd like to think I'm the Elf you need around anyway, if something big is going to happen."

"You didn't answer my question," says Ecthelion, his wry smile threatening to break into a grin. He turns to Erestor instead, clearly realising that this is the only way he's going to get a sensible answer. "So has he done it again, then? Come out with any other pronouncements that turned out to be right? Or was this just a one-off?"

Erestor smiles, serenely. "Not a single one." Glorfindel yelps in protest, but Erestor calmly continues. "You know how it is, with some people; they have a gift and they use it all up in one big, spectacular gesture, but they can never repeat it again."

"Hey!" Glorfindel complains. "You don't know that. Maybe all the others haven't come true yet."

"I don't recall you ever making any other prophecies," Erestor points out. "Or, indeed, saying anything that sounded as though it had any future significance at all."

"You wound me," says Glorfindel, clutching at his heart. "You really do. I thought we were _friends_."

"We are," says Erestor. "Which is why I say the things I say. Someone needs to look out for you and make sure you don't get too conceited. Only a very good friend would perform that service for you."

Ecthelion lets out a bark of laughter. "You two really haven't changed, have you? All these millennia later, and you're both still exactly the same."

"Well, that's the glory of being Elves, isn't it?" says Glorfindel. "Eternally beautiful, forever unchanging. All the mortals wish they were us."

"Not _all_ of them," argues Erestor. "I think the Hobbits are quite content with their short lives, and the Men seem fairly happy with their even shorter ones. And let it not be forgotten that the Lady Arwen chose a mortal life."

There is a brief, respectful silence; none of them can quite comprehend Arwen's decision, but they all respect it. Ecthelion, who never met her, can be dispassionate about it, but Erestor and Glorfindel, both of whom knew her from her earliest days, are still coming to terms with the idea that she will never sail West to join them.

"In all fairness," Glorfindel says after a few moments, sounding a little subdued, "she did have a rather excellent reason for making the decision she made."

"Indeed she did," says Erestor.

"Tell me about them," interjects Ecthelion, sensing that his friends need distracting from their sorrow over Arwen's choice. 

"Well," says Glorfindel, "Arwen is called the Evenstar, and for good reason, for she is the fairest Elf I have ever seen. Fairer even than Galadriel, or Celebrían her mother."

"Fairer even than you?" prods Ecthelion, and Glorfindel has to pause to consider.

"Fairer even than him," Erestor puts in before Glorfindel can come up with a suitable answer. "And a hundred times as wise. Perhaps a thousand times as graceful."

"I am sorry I shall not meet her, in that case," says Ecthelion, over Glorfindel's squawk of indignation. "She sounds quite delightful."

"She truly is. And Estel - forgive me, it is hard to remember not to use his childhood name - Elessar is a great and gentle man. He will be an excellent king." Erestor smiles faintly. "Difficult though it was to imagine it when he was a small boy running through the halls of Imladris attempting to avoid his bath time."

Glorfindel lets out a laugh, his indignation vanished. "I'd forgotten that. Little terror, wasn't he? I always thanked my lucky stars I didn't have to tutor him in anything other than swordsmanship. I'd likely have ended his illustrious career before it began if I'd been cooped up in a schoolroom with him. How did you ever restrain yourself?"

"My infinite reserves of patience, honed over the millennia by dealing with you on a day-to-day basis, served me very well in those days," says Erestor with great serenity. "Not to mention my apparently somewhat forbidding aspect. I do believe Estel was a little afraid of me, for a while, at least."

"You always were the scary one," says Glorfindel with a grin. "Whereas I had the benefit of the fact that my legend does rather go before me."

Erestor rolls his eyes. "You truly are the most remarkably self-satisfied Elf I have ever had the misfortune of knowing."

"I'm sorry, did you say something?" Glorfindel smiles sweetly. "I stopped listening after you said 'remarkable', but I already knew that."

"You've always known that," puts in Ecthelion. "Even before you earned it with all your heroic deeds."

"True enough," Glorfindel acknowledges. "Well, what's the point if you're not going to have full confidence in yourself?

"You're making him worse," says Erestor softly, affection warming his voice. "He doesn't need anyone encouraging him."

"That's true too," says Glorfindel, "but it's still nice to have confirmation from one's friends, you know. "

Erestor rolls his eyes, but Ecthelion picks up his tankard of ale once more. "I've missed you two," he says with a smile. "I can't tell you how dull it's been here without you."

"Well, I already know what it's like, of course," says Glorfindel, "it's incredibly dull, all this peaceful resting and all that."

Erestor sighs. "What I wouldn't give for some peaceful resting," he says, but he is smiling, and the other two mirror that smile, warm and affectionate and just a little bit rueful. 

"We've missed you, too," says Glorfindel after a moment. "It wasn't quite the same without you." He lifts his tankard. "How about a toast? To reunions."

"Reunions," the other two echo him, knocking their tankards against his.

"And to Hobbits," says Glorfindel, raising his tankard again. "To Hobbits, and shieldmaidens, and the constancy of Men. And to being proved right."

"To all of that," says Ecthelion with another clank of tankards, and Erestor sighs theatrically but echoes Ecthelion regardless. 

"To a quiet life, for a little while at least," Erestor says once they have all drunk their toast, and the other two look at him with joking incredulity. "I can't speak for you two, of course," he says, "but I, for one, would be very grateful for a few decades, at least, without any adventures at all. The last few years have been quite enough to be going on with."

"If you say so," says Glorfindel, "I've been having a marvellous time."

"I'm sure you have," says Erestor, "but not all of us have your temperament. Personally I should like not to have to worry about you doing something idiotic for just a little while."

Glorfindel squawks, but Ecthelion forestalls him by raising his tankard once more. "I'll drink to that," he says. "Time to let the Age of Men deal with the heroics. And time for us to sit and talk and drink Hobbit ale. Middle-Earth is as safe as it can be in the hands of Elessar and Arwen and their companions, as far as I can gather from you, so the three of us can sit back and let them get on with it. You can always go in search of adventure later, but for now, there is ale to drink, to honour all those who had a hand in the defeat of Sauron."

Glorfindel subsides at the mention of drinking ale, and they fetch themselves a couple of fresh flagons with which to refill their tankards. There is indeed ale to drink, and toasts to propose, and a whole host of heroes to honour. Adventures - and probably headaches, first - can come later.


End file.
